The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that
Some people wrap their lies around
And you sit wondering

We sit indoors and talk of the col
And every gust that gathers streng
Is a threat to the house. But the
We think of the tree. If it never
We’ll know, we say, that this was

Don’t bother me.
I’ve just
been born.
The butterfly’s loping flight
carries it through the country of

WHAT guile is this, that those h
She doth attire under a net of gol
And with sly skill so cunningly th
That which is gold, or hair, may s
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils

Understand, I am always trying to
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,

Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.

Scatterghost,
it can’t float away.
And the rain, everybody’s brother,
won’t help. And the wind all these
flying like ten crazy sisters ever

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief
Is it that they are born again

Go to Tibet.
Ride a camel.
Read the Bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a Beard.

Tightly-folded bud,
I have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,

Abstraction is an old story with t
Granted no one but a humanist much
Then there is this wildness whereo
It should be of the pleasure of a
No tears in the writer, no tears i